


Something Greater

by Bexxter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brief cutting in chapter 5, Cokebugs, Detox, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, John Is So Done, John is a Saint, Overdosing, Sherlock is a huge brat, Withdrawal, resolved with Doctor John and some fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bexxter/pseuds/Bexxter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Step Two of the Twelve Step Recovery Program :  Come to believe that a power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity.<br/>After finding out that Sherlock is still dependent upon cocaine, John is determined to help him get clean, no matter how much he fights. He’s going to see his best friend to sobriety, whatever that entails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Drugs and addiction have always fascinated me and I felt inspired to write a fic about John dealing with Sherlock's addiction, and the consequences of making him detox. This will be my first Sherlock chaptered fic (as well as probably my longest fic to date) so I'm excited.
> 
> I hope you enjoy

 

He could hear the blood pounding in his ears just under the dull roar surrounding him. A muffled cry broke into his cocoon of static.

_What was that?_

A shout. John?

_Yes, John._

Calm statement.

_Someone else._

The white noise grew louder, clouding his ears.

_Where was everyone going? What was –_

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. Everything around him had stopped. Taking a look at his surroundings he recognized John, forehead wrinkled in worry, as the only familiar face. A young woman stood beside John while an older man was positioned across from him.

_What are they gathered around?_

_Ah. Stretcher._

Looking down at its occupant, Sherlock's brow furrowed when he identified the body as his own. He was still lying down, eyes closed, face calm. He looked back at his conscious self, ran his hands across his skin to see if he existed. He seemed to still have a physical presence; he just appeared to be the only one who noticed it.

_Fascinating!_

Shrugging and intrigued with the current situation, Sherlock swung his legs off and stood. His feet still held him up. He could still stand, still feel the cold, sterile tile beneath him. He took an experimental step. Yes, motor capability still intact.

Sherlock rounded the stretcher to stand next to John.

"John? John, can you hear me?"

No reaction.

He prodded at his flatmate's arm, each jab of a boney finger becoming successively harder. "John. John. John. John. _John!_ "

Still nothing.

_Well then._

Sherlock moved on to the young brunette. He childishly waved his hand in front of her face, snapped his fingers, pranced around in a circle – anything to try and get someone's attention. After what Sherlock guessed to be a good five minutes of antics, he huffed down on the edge of the stretcher. That's when he noticed it. Halted above his unconscious self's chest was a defibrillator.

_Cardiac arrest._

_-Cause?_

_Arrhythmia._

_-Well clearly Sherlock. Just because your heart's stopped doesn't mean your '_ out of body _' brain has to. What_ caused _the arrhythmia? Think!_

Sherlock screwed his eyes closed to concentrate. The absence of information that would have flooded his brain by now alarmed him.

_Think harder!_

The first thing he could remember was shouting, most of it belonging to John. Then taste of vomit in his mouth, movement like that of a cab. _Ambulance, logically_.

Rolling, other voices, John still yelling. Then the information stopped and he was on a stretcher in the hospital.

He frantically scanned through the bleak records of the events leading up to his heart failure. Nothing was complete; everything came in snippets of barely coherent information. Random phrases and sensations. Very little visual information to work with and that which did exist was blurred.

_Ah._

When Sherlock's eyes opened again he was back at 221B Baker Street, lounged on the sofa in his dressing gown, per usual. He was bored. John had confiscated the gun, there were no experiments that readily interested him, and there were no pressing crimes to pique his interest. Low crime rate: wonderful for London, absolutely horrid for Sherlock.

There was only one cure left for his boredom.

After mustering enough energy to remove himself from the couch, Sherlock strolled back to his room and opened the closest door. His hand blindly felt around the top shelf, shoving away meaningless miscellany that impeded his search. Finally he felt what he was looking for. Sherlock pulled the small rectangular case from its hiding place and sat down on the bed to examine the contents.

The small glass container shone in the afternoon sunlight that filled the room.

_Plenty left._

The tourniquet was secured, the mixture prepared, the needle loaded. Sherlock sharply inhaled while euphoria quickly washed over him. He could feel, literally _feel_ , his brain become engaged as the solution flooded his veins. He could hear the noise dissipating until only what mattered remained. When his steely blue eyes shot open, he was surprised by the darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.

_Get up. You're fine. Slight side effect. It'll clear up._

Sherlock forced himself from the bed. He stumbled to the door and had to brace himself for a moment before he dared continue down the hallway. The consulting detective made it an astonishing five steps before his legs gave out.

_Alright. You may begin to worry._

He pressed himself up onto his knees, trying to steady his breathing and focus on the simple task of returning to the sitting room.

There was an alarming disconnect between his crumpled body in the hallway and his sudden stumble into the flat's main room. Sherlock didn't remember managing to drag himself the remaining distance, but didn't bother to question it in his now manic state. Something was wrong.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I'm home."

_Ah, John!_

_John!_

Sherlock felt his mouth open, knew his brain formulated the word, but heard no result. Footsteps moved further up the stairs. Sherlock attempted to stand once more.

Futile. His legs seized up and he felt his head crack against the corner of the coffee table as he returned to the floor.

John must've heard the crash. His hearing fading in and out, Sherlock faintly registered falling groceries, rushed footfalls, and worried shouts.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Oh God, Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock? Can you hear me? It's going to be alright. I'm going to call an ambulance. Just stay with me..."

_-x-_

_  
_

"Sir, please. We asked you to wait in—"

John pushed against the woman's arm attempting to restrain him. "No! Get his heart started again, damn it!"

"Sir, he's trying. I think it might be best if you—"

"I'm not leaving until I'm sure he's okay!"

_What the hell have you done to yourself now, Sherlock?_

 

_-x-_

 

John walked into the flat. "Sherlock, I'm home." He waited for even the subtlest of responses, when he got none, he called again. "Sherlock?"

He heard something large hit the ground in the sitting room. "Sherlock!"

John dropped the groceries on the floor before darting to a collapsed Sherlock. Just as John reached him, the detective began to shudder violently. The lean man was a convulsing heap, eyes rolling in his head. "Oh God… Mrs. Hudson!"

Medical training taking over, John placed a hand on either side of Sherlock's head to keep it stable. He shouted over his shoulder again. " _Mrs. Hudson!_ "

Terror curled in his gut as warm red leaked over his hand. He sucked in a deep breath to steady himself. "Sherlock? Can you hear me? It's going to be alright. I'm going to call an ambulance. Just stay with me."

 

_-x-_

 

Sherlock jolted into consciousness, dragged from the living room floor of 221B and rejoined with his physical form. His eyes flew open and the world that had just been muffled and dampened shot into focus. The time previously frozen rushed at him from zero to sixty in close to naught.

He had heard John.

_Where is John?_

Sherlock strained his neck only to be pushed back onto the stretcher.

John was visible from behind the brunette. She was using one arm to keep a frantic John at bay and the other to keep a freshly alive Sherlock from leaping up and sending himself into a worse condition.

"See sir? His heart is back. I am going to ask you again to please wait here while we finish with him."

He wanted to lash out at her, tell her she had no right to shoo John. Clearly he was far better educated in medicine than she. Though when he tried to speak his mouth couldn't even be bothered to open. He was trapped in his own head, hoping he could at least still glare to convey his discontent.

Wait… why had John stopped protesting? Why was he suddenly moving?

_No. Stop!_

_John!_

_John! Don't let these idiots take me!_

_John!_

 

_-x-_

_  
_

When Sherlock's pulse returned and blue eyes jarred open, John let out a sigh of relief. Then once more the nurse began harping on him that he needed to leave. John looked between the nurse and Sherlock, who managed to look completely dazed and livid at the same time.

He didn't want to leave his best friend like this, but he knew that he couldn't win the current argument. He also knew he didn't have much right to be angry with her; she was just doing what she was supposed to. Giving Sherlock one more glance, John stepped back and nodded.

"Just tell me when I can see him again."

The nurse smiled and nodded. Then Sherlock was gone. But John certainly didn't miss the fear that registered, if only for a brief moment, across his friend's face as he was wheeled away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies about the delay in updating. Thank you so much for the positive response to chapter one! Your support is greatly appreciated. Here's chapter two for you lovelies; hope you enjoy!

“Sir, please!”

Sherlock thrashed once more. “No! I’m not letting some idiotic, fresh from school nurse touch me.”

“You’re going to upset your heart again!” The nurse lunged forward to try and examine a wriggly Sherlock. The doctor had walked away after three minutes of struggling, while the nurse continued for another two. Sherlock had tried to convince them that he was fine, but they were having none of that. He had to get out.

_Why did John abandon me to these people? I hate him._

Footsteps echoed along the tiled hall, swiftly approaching Sherlock.

_Please be someone reasonable._

Instead of a ‘reasonable’ person, he saw the doctor from before inserting something into his IV fluids.

“Why are you back?” Sherlock snarled. “Didn’t I already tell you that I want nothing to do with you?”

“If I listened to everything my patients said there would be a lot more corpses coming out of here.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Look. My flat-mate is a doctor. He’s worrisome, overprotective, and absurdly annoying about rules, health, and other such nonsense. If you let me leave, I’ll be just…”

Before Sherlock could finish ranting the world was becoming fuzzy again. He shot a sideways look to the doctor who had so rudely sedated him before his anger simply slid away. He was back to the conscious but incapable state he had experienced when shocked back to life on the stretcher.

_Idiots._

_-x-_

John anxiously sat in a poorly cushioned chair in the limbo known as the waiting room, his foot and fingers tapping erratically. He had already phoned Mycroft who sighed with familiarity and said he’d be down soon. Now John was stuck waiting. Waiting, allowing his anger to slowly overtake his worry. Waiting, wondering how bad it was, the injury and the addiction. Wondering how someone as smart as Sherlock could do something so _stupid_ , how he hadn’t noticed. After what seemed like years, the nurse from before emerged, telling him it was alright to see Sherlock who she, as everyone else, presumed to be his boyfriend. With the now habitual ‘we’re not together’, John was led to Sherlock’s bed.

Noticing the glazed look in Sherlock’s eyes, John turned on the nurse. “What did you do?”

“We had to sedate him.”

“He’s had a head injury! You can’t –”

“He’s not unconscious, sir, so there’s no risk of coma. Simply put, he’s just out of it. We had to calm him down enough to finish treating him. He kept screaming at us and thrashing about. He’s fine.” She tried to reassure John with a light squeeze to his shoulder, but he tensed at the touch and rolled it off.

“How long until he’s back to normal?” John asked, glancing at the unnaturally calm expression claiming Sherlock’s features.

“Probably about another thirty to forty five minutes,” the nurse said and headed off.

John watched her go before looking around, shuffling awkwardly. Finally, he pulled a chair to the bed and sat down, shaking his head and muttering. “You’re an idiot, Sherlock.”

Deciding to take advantage of Sherlock’s current state, John examined pale skin for signs of usage. Rolling up black sleeves, he groaned at the inevitable. Track marks dotted the inside of Sherlock’s arm. Bruised veins marred otherwise clean white skin. Sherlock’s head lolled toward John at the action, eyes vacant, expression dreamy. He smiled and turned away to stare at the ceiling once more.

John sat back and rubbed his forehead. Sherlock was using again and he hadn’t seen it. _How hadn’t he bloody seen it?_ He was a doctor! Shouldn’t he have noticed something, _anything_? When did it start? Why did it start? How often was Sherlock using? How much? Mycroft made it seem like this had happened before, which didn’t surprise John. But what number overdose was this?

John remembered the day Lestrade had come in for one of his drugs busts. He couldn’t believe someone as brilliant as Sherlock could do something so incredibly stupid to himself. Sherlock later assured him it had been a while since he last touched cocaine – the nicotine patches helped. John was stupid enough to believe that Sherlock wouldn’t go back, that he wasn’t an addict. He couldn’t be an addict, he was _Sherlock Holmes_.

John snorted at how moronic and trusting he’d been. Slumping back in his chair, he found himself faced with more waiting. As he counted the approximated minutes until Sherlock would become lucid again, he figured out what to say. He’d dealt with an addict or two as a doctor, but they weren’t Sherlock and they weren’t his best friend. Sherlock was going to get clean; John was going to be sure of it. He couldn’t watch his friend steadily shorten his lifespan – longevity already threatened by experiments and other reckless behavior.

_-x-_

_Hospitals are useless institutions_ , Sherlock thought crossly, feeling slowly returning to his limbs and the fog lifting from his brain. As his fingers began tingling with restored nerve activity he became aware of a pressure around his hand and searched for its source.

He turned his head to see John, who quickly unlaced his fingers and jerked his hand away.

Sherlock tried to speak, but in his current state he was only able to croak out the first sound of John's name. He also tried to sit up even though he knew hadn't gained enough strength back and petulantly fell back into his bed.

"Hey,” John said softly, “You're in hospital. I found you seizing in the floor with a cracked head. Sherlock, what did you do?”

At no answer, John asked again, steadily progressing into his military voice, as Sherlock called it. “ _What did you do_?”  
  
Sherlock was silent. He knew that John knew about the drugs. The doctor wasn’t a genius, but certainly wasn’t an idiot either.  
  
John waited another minute or two for a response. When he was sure he would get none, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So you’re going to pretend like you have no clue how you got here? I was just talking to your brother, Sherlock. The way he was talking leads me to believe this isn’t the first time."  
  
Sherlock groaned, found out. “It’s the first one in nearly five years. I’ve been fine,” he protested.  
  
“Fine until you’re having a seizure, causing you to bust your head on the damn coffee table. Perfectly fine,” John spat.

“I would’ve been fine.”

“Sherlock!” John shouted, as if raising his voice would somehow show Sherlock the magnitude of the situation. “You were bleeding on the floor, having a seizure, due to your cocaine addiction. What if I hadn’t gotten home when I did?”

“A larger stain on the carpet.”

“And I could’ve found you comatose – or dead!”

Sherlock shrugged and itched at his I.V. John swatted his hand when he tried to remove it. Glaring, the detective took to fiddling with his admission bracelet, desperately attempting to pry it off his thin wrist.

John tapped his foot, obnoxiously loud Sherlock might add, and kept his gaze on his flatmate. Chatter of other patients and the staff hovered in the air, but the rhythmic pattern of John’s shoe against tile was in the center of Sherlock’s hearing. It wasn’t just the sound, it was the look he was receiving. He’d rather John keep yelling at him than have him seethe in silence, disappointment and anger practically dripping from his pores.

Sherlock snapped. “Will you stop that?”

John’s foot halted mid-tap and slowly lowered to the floor with as little sound as possible. “When did you start using, Sherlock?” he asked sternly.

“College.”

“You know what I mean.” Military voice had fully set in. “Since you last ‘ _got clean_.’” The term was sneered. “How long have you been using again?”

“Long enough and you still never noticed.”

“Probably because I didn’t want to. I’d rather not assume my friend and flatmate is a cocaine addict.”

“You should’ve learned that I’m not a very good person to put faith in, John,” Sherlock said, once again jiggling his I.V.

John reached across him and pulled Sherlock’s hand from the crook of his elbow. He tried to get away, only to have John’s grip tighten, digging the bottom edge of the admission band into his skin.

“You know that’s wrong,” he said, voice low. “I have put my trust in you since the start, no matter how misplaced others think it to be. You are brilliant, Sherlock, and never in my life have I trusted someone as much I as trust you. I apologise for trusting you to not be a total idiot, my mistake _clearly_. Now, tell me. How long. Have you. Been using.”

“I used on and off for a while not long after you moved in to 221B, stopped, and most recently began using cocaine during the ‘Great Game’ as you called it on that blog of yours,” Sherlock mumbled, successfully removing his arm from John’s constrictor-like hold. “And I’ve used a little more than usual in the past two weeks, probably the cause of my overdose. I’m actually surprised I didn’t do this earlier, considering how much I took the day after the incident at the pool. Other than the occasional overdose, I’m not seeing a ‘problem’ here. It doesn’t interfere with my work. I was using cocaine and still caught up to Moriarty. It helps me think when I need to and quiet everything when I don’t.”

“So you’re telling me that, along with being a high functioning sociopath, you’re also a high functioning cocaine addict.”

“I’m not seeing where this becomes an issue.”

“That _is_ the issue!” John shouted, hand slamming on the bed sheets. “You have a problem, Sherlock!”

“That’s a purely subjective term.”

“A drug addiction is _not_ subjective and is obviously a problem.”

“It allows me to function in the way I wish to. Therefore, not a problem.”

John groaned and placed his head in his hands, unsure how to get through to his friend, how to convey that being dependent upon a drug was more than a bit not good.

“Thankfully third time is not the charm.”

John looked up to see Mycroft walking towards his brother, lips pursed, eyebrow raised, entirely not amused by such antics. The tip of his omnipresent umbrella tapped at Sherlock’s elbow. “Still not learned our lesson, have we? What would Detective Inspector Lestrade say if he knew you had been injecting such rubbish into your veins while working for him? And how do you suppose this makes Doctor Watson feel?”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, eyes focusing on a whitewashed wall instead of meeting his brother’s condescending gaze.

The other Holmes shook his head at his brother’s attitude and instead spoke to John. “May I talk with you for a moment, Doctor Watson?”

_-x-_

John looked at Sherlock, who barely shrugged and looked away again. Trusting his friend to be safe in a hospital, and hoping staff would detain him should, or more likely when, he did something stupid, he got up and followed Mycroft.

“I apologise for my brother causing you any trouble with his reckless behavior.”

“Chasing criminals or running blindly into violence is reckless. This is pure stupidity! How can you let him do this to himself?”

Mycroft straightened and tilted his chin upwards, making his height over John very obvious. “And you don’t think I’ve tried?”

“He’s still an addict isn’t he?”

“He started over a decade ago in University. Bored with the coursework and alienated by his peers, he found the cocaine helped. He wasn’t bored, he was able to at least pretend to relate to those that hated him. He overdosed for the first time at twenty. I convinced him to sober up and he stayed that way until about twenty four. That’s when he started using it like he does now; to quiet everything, draw further back into himself.  He was using irregularly. Sometimes for months, maybe weeks, or maybe just one day, and then he wouldn’t touch it again for a month.” Mycroft paused, examining some speck on his suit that John couldn’t see. “I attempted to help him multiple times throughout the years. Nothing worked.”

“Well he was clean when I met him, wasn’t he?”

“To my knowledge, yes.”

“Then _something_ worked.”

“Gregory Lestrade and Sherlock’s obsessions with puzzles. He met Inspector Lestrade when he was arrested for possession after he wandered onto a crime scene. He started spewing off details about the murder and told the police where to find the weapon. He was good, even while… _inebriated_. By the time he was through booking, the Yard had recovered a murder weapon, fingerprints intact. Inspector Lestrade was kind enough to offer Sherlock a job should he get clean. He helped me deal with him during detox – Sherlock refused to go to a treatment centre. He overdosed one more time under Lestrade and I’s watch before he kept his promise.” Mycroft spun his umbrella around and tapped the floor in front of John’s feet. “It seems to me that he picked up the needle again once _you_ moved in,” ‘you’ accentuated with another tapping of the umbrella tip.

John’s eyes narrowed and he stepped back, ready to punch Mycroft, ‘minor position’ in the British government be damned. He wanted to snap that umbrella in half and shove it up Mycroft’s smug arse. Instead, he checked his anger, tried to calm down, and spoke through gritted teeth.

“He’s _your_ younger brother. And just so you know, I’m going to do what _you_ couldn’t.”

Mycroft scoffed. “Unlikely.”

_Do not punch him, do not punch him, do not punch him._

“I’ve tried, Doctor Watson. I don’t like what he does, but if his relapses are becoming farther apart, I’ll take that as a good sign. If my brother wants to slowly kill himself—”

“I know you’re not just going to watch.” As detached as Mycroft tried to act, John knew he cared for his younger brother, albeit strangely.

“I’ll do my best to save him,” he finished his statement curtly, annoyed by the interruption. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Face clearly conveying the need to leave, probably on some matter of national security, he left John with tersely delivered parting words. “Though, it’s hard to help someone who doesn’t want it.”

John watched Mycroft leave, still clenching his fists. If that bastard was going to blame _him_ for Sherlock’s drug problem, he had another thing coming. John had already promised himself he was going to get Sherlock off the cocaine; now he had to do it not just to save his friend’s life, but to make that annoying brother of his bite his needlessly sharp tongue.

_-x-_

Sherlock didn’t particularly care what John and his brother were talking about, he knew it was him, probably Mycroft explaining the finer details of his history with illegal substances. Successfully freeing the I.V. needle from his arm, Sherlock debated leaving. He managed to prop himself up into a sitting position, but his legs still weren’t responding.

 _Bored_.

While he was glad that John had found him and prevented something worse from happening, he hated that he had to see him like that, some tremulous heap in the living room floor, bleeding heavily, vulnerable, weak, _helpless_. He didn’t like worrying, much less _disappointing_ , John. His parents and Mycroft had often tried to play to him by acting disappointed, tried to guilt him into remorse, but only John managed to make it work. Though Sherlock wasn’t sorry about the cocaine, he was sorry John had to find out. Life could have gone on just fine, John contently oblivious.

_Maybe that trite statement ‘ignorance is bliss’ holds some truth._

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John back up, saw his posture straighten and tense, bulking himself up to intimidate Mycroft.

_What has he done now?_

John’s voice rose slightly, not enough for Sherlock to coherently catch what was said, but enough to solidify the hypothesis of anger. Mycroft glanced at his mobile, said something to John, sneering, and strutted off. When John’s face was visible again, Sherlock found himself slightly terrified of the soldier. Rage pulsated from John. Mycroft chose a good time to leave, otherwise he might have suffered a beating in the middle of the hospital.

He saw John’s eyebrows rise slightly when he noticed that he had finally managed to get the needle out of his arm. No doubt John would call a nurse over soon.

“What did Mycroft say that’s got you so riled,” he asked, absentmindedly scratching at the I.V’s previous spot or injection points – they blended together in his head. Needle marks were needle marks.

_Ugh, forgot about the itch._

John stood at the end of the bed, arms crossed. “Nothing, Sherlock.” He stopped and looked Sherlock in the eye. He used something even sterner than his military tone, something Sherlock didn’t know was possible. “I just hope you enjoyed today because you’re never touching cocaine again.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether to laugh or punch the doctor.

_You can’t be serious._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly a year without updating... whoops. Corrupted documents, busy betas, first year of college. But those are excuses and you don't want excuses, just content. I'm truly sorry that it took this long. Thank you for not giving up on me (hopefully)

Chapter 3

The ride back to 221B had been silent and stiff. Sherlock shoved himself as close to the door as he could, making sure there was plenty of space between him and John. He dragged his feet all the way into their flat, acting like it was an enormous feat to make it up the steps. He showed any sign of energy only when he stepped into the sitting room to find Lestrade pulling off a rubber glove. Sherlock whipped his head around to glare at John.

“You had Lestrade search the flat?”

“Your brother did.” John crossed his arms. “I was more than happy to let him.”

“You’re honestly stuck on this?”

“Yes I’m ‘stuck on this’, this being your sobriety.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

_John, why are you such a pain?_

“I’m not hurting anyone.”

“Dammit, Sherlock, you’re hurting yourself! I’m not about to run through all the reasons that cocaine is a bad life choice. You’re smart enough to know what it can do to you.”

Lestrade stood in between the two, just watching, afraid to interfere. He saw anger evident in both pairs of eyes and was a man who knew how to pick his battles. This wasn’t his. This was a fight for Sherlock and John only.

After what seemed like an eternity of silent staring, Sherlock turned on his heel and threw himself onto the sofa, entering into insolent child mode. John turned to Lestrade and the pair stepped out to the landing.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“Already been disposed of.”

“And you did it yourself? No one else from the Yard?”

Lestrade shook his head. “I don’t bring them if I’m conducting a legitimate search. I don’t want the trouble.”

John nodded and sighed. Motioning to Sherlock he said, “Watch him. I’m going to check out a few spots.”

Sherlock watched John turn from Lestrade and close the doors separating the kitchen and sitting room. Lestrade reentered from the landing and leaned against the door frame.

“He’s doing this for your own good, you know,” he said. The only sign that Sherlock had heard him was a slight snarl in his lip. Moving to the coffee table, he sat. The carpet had already been taken care of, but Lestrade noticed the slight tint of red from where Sherlock’s head had impacted.

“You promised me you wouldn’t let this happen again. You promised me you would stay clean. One of these days your brother and I won’t be able to cover up for all your stupid shit like this.”

Sherlock rolled over to avoid the DI’s gaze. “Will that be the same day you’ll both leave me alone? If so, I do hope it comes soon,” he mumbled into a pillow.

“Sherlock.”

“Stop it with the disappointed father voice. I’m not one of your children. How are they dealing with you and your wife’s constant cycle of marital issues?”

“We’re not here to talk about my issues, Sherlock.”

Sherlock whipped back around and raised himself into a sitting position so his and Lestrade’s knees touched. “Really now? You’ve been separated for three months now, only staying together for six. You’re seeing your children every other weekend. You—”

Lestrade slammed his fist on the table. “Stop it Sherlock! Now! I know you’re being more of a prick because you’re coming down and realizing that John is serious about this, but stop! He’s doing this because he’s looking out for you; he cares about your wellbeing. He means business. Don’t fuck with him. And I’d like it if you’d stop taking your frustrations out on me!”

“Oh what do you know about any of this?” Sherlock said, words saturated with disdain.

“I’ve dealt with you like this before. You’re damn lucky you stumbled across my crime scene – I doubt anyone else would have traded your jail time for your agreement to clean up and help. You would’ve ended up in prison. And you’d go back to using the second you got out. I let you into my home while you were detoxing. I helped you find a flat and gave you a job! _Don’t you dare_ try and tell me I don’t know about this!” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed and disappointed father was traded out for ‘done with your bullshit’ Detective Inspector during interrogation.

Sherlock was a bit shaken, but there was no way he was going to show it and give Lestrade the satisfaction.

Just then, John reopened the doors, bag full of paraphernalia. Sherlock’s eyes widened. “How did you…”

“I know you Sherlock,” John said, lips turning up in a smirk at his flatmate’s expression. He handed the bag over to Lestrade. Sherlock had to resist the urge to throttle him for how smug he looked.

_Oh look at me, I’m John Watson and I found where the great Sherlock Holmes hides his drugs. Give me a medal._

Instead of harsh remarks, Sherlock just stood and brushed past John and Lestrade, only to have John catch his wrist.

“Where are you going?”

“Worried? I thought you found all of the coke,” Sherlock said. John couldn’t stand the condescension in his voice.

“I did, didn’t I?” He meant to sound certain, but heard the question hovering in the words.

Sherlock snorted. “Why would I tell you if you didn’t?” Yanking himself free from John’s grip, he continued on his way. “I’m just going to take a shower. I smell like sick idiots.”

_-x-_

After he was sure Sherlock was in the shower, John collapsed into his chair, face in his hands. Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder on his way to sit across from him.

“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

John groaned and pulled his head up. “I like to think I do, but I’m fairly certain I don’t.”

“You know the normal symptoms of withdrawal? The irritability, mood swings, occasional violence?”

John nodded.

“And you know normal Sherlock? Combine the two and multiply the resulting annoyance by about a thousand and there’s the pain that is Sherlock going through withdrawal.”

“I can deal with it Greg. I mean, I’ll have to.”

Lestrade chuckled and glanced at the bag he had set on the table. “Where did you find those? It’d be nice to know for future reference.”

John’s tone became icy. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair. “There’s not going to be a need for future reference. If you all keep expecting him to relapse, then of course he’s going to.”

Laughing again, this time with a sense of melancholy cut into it, Lestrade rubbed his forehead. “I’ve dealt with his detox once, five years ago when I first met him. Helped him get clean then let him work with the Yard. Didn’t care about the coke if he had cases. I wanted to trust that the bastard was keeping sober, John. But no, he’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, he was fucking functioning and hiding it from everyone when he started back up. I had suspicions, but I needed him and thought if he kept working, if he was back using, he would stop. I wanted to believe he’d become a decent human being, a trustworthy person.”

“It’s not your fault. I live with him and I didn’t notice.”

“I feel so stupid. I thought it would be different. I’m an idiot for thinking one day he might just stop. And dammit,” he paused for a moment, realizing that his voice was escalating. “I cover for him because he’s useful and I need to keep both of our asses safe. It’s bad enough that I call him in, but if someone found out I was consulting a coke-head, I’d be gone from the Yard forever and he’d end up in jail.”

“No, Greg. Don’t be like that. I under—” John’s jumped at a crashing sound coming from the bathroom. He shot up from his seat and rushed down the hall. “Sherlock!”

_-x-_

Sherlock was afraid if he was left out there any longer he would start twitching. Why they so adamant about this? _He was fine_.

Stepping into the shower, he let the hot water wash over him. It helped take the edge of things. He inhaled sharply, trying to calm his mind.

He could talk John out of it. He _would_ talk John out of it. He would convince him that everything was alright. He wasn’t dependent on the cocaine, it was just a nice addition to his life. He could live without it. He went months without using. Addicts don’t go months without using; addicts use on a daily basis. He, Sherlock Holmes, was not a cocaine addict. Therefore, it was not a problem. He had only overdosed three times now and had recovered all three times. But no, Mycroft always had to get him off of it, then he got Lestrade involved, and now John? That traitor.

They complained about his attitude and his habits, yet forced him into detox which only made him moodier and more cantankerous? Yes, _clearly_ the logical thing to do.

He slammed his fist against the shower wall. Why was it so damn hot in the shower? Why was he so tired all of a sudden? He felt the creeping sensation of anxiety beginning to fester and wished he could use to make it go away. He wasn’t addicted. It was helpful, like medicine. It made things better, clearer, more tolerable. He wanted it, but didn’t need it.

And he would have taken some when he got into the bathroom, but John had confiscated that. He must admit though, he was impressed that John found it all. He wasn’t going to say that out loud, no need to encourage him, but he was… proud? But not happy about it. No, not in the least. John had taken the cocaine and dammit! That’s what he wanted right now.

But no, he wasn’t an addict. He could function without it, he just didn’t like to.

John thought he could be the one to finally sober him up. Ha! Oh John. Good natured, selfless Doctor Watson. That wasn’t going to happen.

John would give it back once he saw how miserable his life would be with a detoxing consulting detective. He wouldn’t want to deal with it and give it back. Obvious.

_No, Sherlock. He’s not that pliable. He won’t bend that easily. That’s what you like about him. He doesn’t take your shit - or Mycroft’s and you like that much more. He doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He’s not going to give it back._

His skin was boiling, even after turning the water temperature down, and his head was pounding. He turned the dial to Artic Sea cold, but it didn’t help. He could feel his heartbeat increasing and his breathing was becoming harder to regulate. Easily identifiable as a panic attack.

_Get yourself together, Sherlock. You’re better than this, you tit._

His hands clawed helplessly against the wet tile trying to balance himself. He tried forcing the darkness away, but there were some things even Sherlock couldn’t do.

_Just don’t give yourself another head—_

He collapsed, feet slipping out from under him and the slick walls offering no help down.

“Sherlock!”

_How stupidly familiar._

His eyelids were heavy and he didn’t particularly feel like expending the effort of lifting them. The icy water stopped bombarding his skin and he heard shower curtain being flung back.

“Sherlock?” There was worry in John’s voice.

_Fine, I’m opening my eyes. I’m fine._

Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes and stare, indifferent, at the man crouched over him. John placed the back of his palm against his forehead as if he were a sick child. “You’re freezing.”

“Got hot,” he mumbled.

“What happened?”

“Felt a bit dizzy. I’m fine.” Sherlock tried to stand again, unsuccessful due to the combination of light-headedness and a slippery shower floor. Before he could fall again, John reached out and caught him. It was then that the fact that Sherlock was naked registered with John. He jerked away, holding Sherlock at the furthest distance possible while still being able to help him. His face burned red and he tried to look anywhere but at his flatmate.

“Well, erm, uh…” John’s eyes fell on the towel Sherlock had laid out. Taking his hand off of Sherlock for just a moment, hoping he wouldn’t faint again, he grabbed it and nearly threw it at him. “Here’s your towel.”

Sherlock didn’t see the need for all the fuss John was making – about the drugs or the fact that he was naked. Why must he be so overdramatic about everything? Humoring John, he wrapped the towel around his waist and pushed him out of the way.

“Sherlock.”

Pausing at the door, he groaned. “What now?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I can at least make it to my room, a whole ten steps away, to get dressed. Unless you want me to gallivant around the flat in the nude,” he quipped.

“No!”

“Then I’ll be seeing you again in a few minutes.”

_-x-_

John was waiting for him in the sitting room. Lestrade had left and Mrs. Hudson had brought up tea. Picking a cup up as he made his way to his chair, Sherlock rolled his eyes at the note left on the tray.

‘Do hope you’re feeling better, Sherlock. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, but only until you’re alright. I’m not your housekeeper. –Mrs. H.’ Even signed with a silly little smiley face. How pedestrian.

“She was worried about you,” John said from his seat. “I didn’t tell her why you were bleeding and having a seizure. Or does she know about the cocaine use?”

“I figure she’ll find out sooner or later,” he said flatly, taking a sip of tea. Too bitter.

“I’ll have to tell her sometime. She needs to know if she’s going to help me look after you the first few weeks.”

“What?”

“I can’t just take off time from work to help you through withdrawal. It was a miracle I got the next two days off, but other than that, someone else is going to have to look after you.”

Sherlock glared at him. “I’m not a small child, why is everyone treating me that way?”

“We’re not treating you like a child, we’re just worried. Detox and withdrawal can be difficult.”

“This will be my third time now,” he scoffed.

Setting his tea down, John stared at him until he returned eye contact. His tone was unnecessarily serious in Sherlock’s opinion. “And it will be your last. I’m serious about this Sherlock.”

He scoffed just the same as he did every other time he heard that stupid line.

_You think my brother and Lestrade weren’t serious about it? What makes you think you’re different, John Watson?_

“I’m going to try and be here as much as I can. When I’m not here, it’ll be me, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, your brother, or more likely one of his assistants.” The doctor in John was showing. The entire speech had sounded like care instructions given to one of his patients.

“You found all the cocaine John, no need to keep me under constant surveillance. Mycroft has that covered.”

John’s lips twitched a bit when Sherlock said he found it all, but now wasn’t the time for gloating about how he had Sherlock figured out. “I don’t want you going out and buying any. Or what if you pass out again or get sick?”

“I’m a grown man!” he shouted, getting out of his chair and in the process, knocking his teacup to the floor. He stormed into the kitchen, suddenly hungry, not caring about the tea now spreading out on the sitting room floor. Throwing open cabinets and slamming them closed again, he spun back around to John. “Why isn’t there any food here?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Hands knotting in his hair, he was ready to yank it all out. “I don’t know! When was the last time you made me?”

John grabbed a rag from the kitchen and on the way out answered. “That was nearly three days ago, Sherlock. When was the last time you slept, not counting being unconscious today?” He was trying hard to keep his tone even and calm. Both of them shouting at each other would get them nowhere.

“Why are you asking so many inane questions?” Why was he so angry with John? No, better question: Why was John being so annoying? Just the sound of his voice was grinding at Sherlock’s nerves.

It took every ounce of restraint John had not to toss the wet rag at Sherlock. The agitation wasn’t his fault. It was normal. It would eventually pass. But the next few days were bound to be hell if he was going to deal with a perpetually bored and antsy Sherlock.

_You can do this, John. It’s what’s best for him._

Sherlock had resorted to pouting in the corner, sulking against the counter. John came back into the kitchen, sat the rag on the corner of the sink, and began to dig around in the cabinet. He pulled out a jar of peanut butter and reached behind Sherlock to grab the loaf of bread. “Will a peanut butter sandwich suffice for now?”

Sherlock grunted. John took it with a yes, assuming he would’ve lashed out if the answer was no.

_Just let me have the cocaine back, John. I’ll stop yelling at you, John. I don’t like being this way, but I can’t help it. Just give it back and it’ll be better for both of us._

“Here.”

He took the sandwich without a word. At first he only nibbled at it. Once he had had a decent taste, he devoured it like, well, like a man who hadn’t eaten in nearly three days.

“Cocaine suppresses the appetite.”

“I dun eat mu’ to begin wif,” Sherlock said through a mouthful of peanut butter.

“You’ll still be eating more now that you’re coming off it. I’ll stop by the store tomorrow. Anything in particular you like to eat?”     

Sherlock shrugged. “I like this.”

“You can’t live off of peanut butter sandwiches,” John sighed. But when he saw the anger flash in Sherlock’s eyes, he decided against pressing the issue any further. Sherlock seemed to eat whatever was around when he actually did consume food, so whatever John would buy for himself seemed like a good enough grocery list.

Once he finished the sandwich, its place in Sherlock’s hands was immediately filled with a glass of water. He drank it just as fervently as he had eaten. When did food start tasting this good? Even water, basically flavorless, was delicious.

John just watched. It was amusing how quickly Sherlock inhaled the sandwich and downed the water. Part of him was afraid he might have eaten to fast and would end up being sick. Despite the fact that Sherlock had just been shouting at him, he was now docile and for once he seemed so human. He had _willingly_ asked for food because he was _hungry_. How often did that happen?

“I’m going to bed John,” Sherlock declared, slamming the glass on the counter.

“Do you need anything else?”

“You’re not my nursemaid,” he snarled, back to pissy Sherlock, and left for his bedroom in a huff.

_Do not punch him. It is not his fault. It’ll get better. It’s not that much different from how he normally is and you deal with that. Do not punch him. He is your friend. He is your friend coming off of cocaine. You are a doctor, John. He’s basically your patient. Doctors do not prescribe ‘nice fist to the jaw to cure attitude.’_

_-x-_

_I’m sorry, John. John, you’re so stupid. Why are you doing this? Thank you for the sandwich, I liked it. John when will you stop saying moronic things? I’m not a child, don’t treat me like one. Thank you for caring, John._ Sherlock fell into his bed, screaming at his own brain to pick a side or shut up. The cocaine would make it stop. But the cocaine was gone. And if John had his way it wasn’t coming back. Ever. He wasn’t sure who was more stubborn: John or himself. Only one of them could have their way. Either he got the cocaine back to use at his own discretion, or it never came back and he was stuck trying to compensate. It would be best for everyone if he got to use again. So, Sherlock decided, he would come out victorious over John Watson.

_He’s doing this for your own good. You know that._

_Oh, bugger off._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I again apologize for such a delay. I feel awful because I absolutely hate extended breaks between chapters and know no one else likes them either. Hopefully I'll be able to post more frequently now that my first year is winding down and I'm about to come home for the summer. Many thanks to you for reading this.


	4. Chapter 4

 

“How’s he getting on? Recovering from yesterday?”

John glanced over at Sherlock, furiously typing away on John’s laptop. God forbid he actually use his own. It wasn’t even like John’s was closer – Sherlock’s common excuse for confiscating it – it was across the room in John’s chair while Sherlock’s was on the table next to the sofa.

“Yeah… I’d say he’s doing alright.”

“How’s the first day off and all?”

Sherlock groaned. “Tell Mycroft I’m f—” he lurched upright. “John, I think I’m going to be sick.”

John rushed to get a waste bin and set it next to Sherlock. Despite clearly being able to vomit into the bin, the now detoxing detective shifted his head ever so slightly to puke all over his flatmate’s feet. He wiped his mouth with a paper towel offered by John and looked up with a less-than-half-hearted “Sorry.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched, resisting the urge to shout. Instead he replied to Mycroft through gritted teeth, “Well, he’s just got sick, but he purposefully missed the bin and got it on my shoes. So I think he’s doing alright.”

Mycroft chuckled on the other end, furthering John’s annoyance with those with the surname Holmes. “Best of luck, Doctor Watson,” he said and clicked off.

_-x-_

            John opened the fridge and grabbed the milk carton. He titled it over his glass, only to find nothing coming out. He bought it yesterday. There was no reason it should be empty unless…

            “Sherlock!”

            “What?” Sherlock called from his room.

            “Get in here.”

There was an audible huff from down the hall, followed by the sound of Sherlock’s yanking the door open and storming to the kitchen. John still had the refrigerator door open. He emphatically pointed to the empty milk sitting on the shelf. “What is this?”

            “An empty thing of milk, clearly. You really should throw that out and close the door – wasting electricity and whatnot.”

            “Why the fuck is it empty Sherlock?” John shouted, pulling the carton from the shelf and shoving it Sherlock’s face. “I bought this yesterday!”

            Sherlock pushed the milk away from his face and crossed his arms. “I got thirsty.”

            “So you drank an entire thing of milk?”

            “Yes.”

            The carton clattered across the floor. Grabbing Sherlock by his dressing gown, John gestured to the sink. “Or you poured it all out like a child.” He released Sherlock. “Get dressed. We’re going to Tesco.”

            “What do you mean _we_?” Sherlock snarled.

            “I’m not leaving you here alone and you’re the one who wasted all the milk.” John stared at Sherlock, refusing to let him get out of this. Sherlock straightened his back, as if he thought his height would intimidate John. His eyes narrowed, his lips turned to a scowl. John crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow.

_Really, you think that will work?_

            “Go. Get dressed. Now.”

            Sherlock groaned and turned on his heel, stomping back into his room. He hadn’t been in there too long when John saw pairs of socks flying down the hall.

            “You ruined my sock index,” Sherlock yelled before slamming the door.

            “Oh and did I ruin your pants index too?” John mocked. He heard something clatter to the floor in Sherlock’s room. The testy detective threw the door open again, handful of underpants in each fist. He flung them to the ground.

            “As a matter of fact _you did_.”

            “Acting like a brat won’t get you out of this.”

_-x-_

            “Why am I here?” Sherlock whined

            John glared over his shoulder. “Why did you pour out all the milk?” he asked as he grabbed a new carton of milk. Turning from the cooler, he sighed. “While we’re here we might as well pick up some food since there’s going to be two of us eating now.”

            Sherlock threw his head back and groaned, loud enough for a few people around them to turn and look strangely at the man-child. “I don’t _care_.” He drew out care for three seconds, as if the longer he said it the higher chance he had of John letting him go back home.

            “Well I’m sure you’ll care when you decide you hate all the food in the house.” John lowered his tone, “come on, we’re getting groceries and you’ll stop causing a scene like a toddler.”

            Sherlock watched as John started down the aisle. Reluctantly, he followed but not before muttering under his breath, “Make me.”

_-x-_

“Fuck you,” Sherlock muttered under his breath as John entered the flat. Mrs. Hudson had just gone back downstairs. John hung his coat and turned to Sherlock.

“What did you just say?

Flipping down the daily paper which had already been read and its puzzles solved, Sherlock looked John dead in the eye and repeated himself. “I said, _fuck you_.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Well I’m glad your hearing is fine. So, fuck you and your stupid ideas about what’s good for me, and your stupid medical degree, and your stupid jumpers, and your stupid tea, and your stupid string of stupid girlfriends, and your stupid morals, your stupid sense of obligation, and your stupid little stupid brain! So yes, fuck you.”

John’s fist clenched. If Sherlock’s goal for the day was piss him off as much as possible he was getting very close. “Okay, go ahead and tell that to one of the few people – and by few I mean I can count ‘em on one hand – who care enough to put up with you. You’re gonna tell that to the person who basically makes sure you don’t end up killing yourself on a daily basis?”

“I didn’t ask you to be my _governess_.”

“You don’t ask people to be your _friends_ ,” he yelled, snatching the paper cover Sherlock’s smug face. “And you asked me to move in with you, to be your assistant.”

“I didn’t ask you to keep me as a prisoner in my own flat!”

“This is what’s best for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood and brushed past his flatmate. Just because he knew it was right didn’t mean he wanted to hear it. “Piss off.”

_-x-_

            Manila folders scattered the floor, making a loose trail to Sherlock’s chair where he was curled up and skimming over the file in his hand.

            “Is the wife’s sister five centimeters shorter than the victim and does she wear blue polish?”

            “The height sounds about right but I’m not sure about—”

            He tossed the file to the floor with a roll of his eyes. “Next.”

            Lestrade groaned. “There is no _next_ , Sherlock. You’ve gone through all of them,” he said, bending to gather the folders. “You finished off half of them before you even sat down.”

            “I know you’ve got plenty of unsolved cases tucked away in archives.”

            Dumping all the files into the box they came over in, Lestrade fell into the chair across from Sherlock. “I’ll see if I can dig a few things out next time it’s my turn to babysit.”

            “Babysit?” Sherlock spat the word. “I’m not a child.”

            Lestrade laughed. “Last time I was over you sulked in the corner for an hour which admittedly freaked me the hell out. Then when you were done with that you played your violin atrociously just to make me angry. If that’s not childish I don’t know what is.” Sherlock said nothing. “He’s doing the right thing you know.”

            Sherlock’s lip twitched.

            “Look, we both know this part is awful. But you come out for the better once it’s through.”

            “I function just as well with cocaine as I do without.”

            “See, then there shouldn’t be any need for you to use and worry all of us.”

            “I don’t know why you all get worried. You aren’t the ones injecting drugs.”

            “It’s because we _care_ , Sherlock. As difficult as that is for you to wrap your enormous brain around, when you care about someone you want them to be safe and healthy and _not doing cocaine_. Maybe when you get through this you’ll manage a simple ‘thank you’ for John.”

_-x-_

            “Why do they always get the wrong person first? And then that same person is free to go ten minutes later only for the real convict to be caught between the thirty and forty minute mark if they’re going to trial or within the last ten minutes with no trial? Can’t they see they’re always wrong? And there’s always something pointing to the right person; they’re just too idiotic to realize it.”

            Mrs. Hudson reached down and replaced the remote in Sherlock’s hand with a cup of tea. “Too many crime shows for the day, dear.” She settled herself on the couch. Flipping through channels, she stopped at an afternoon talk show. “She does a lot of easy home tips. Maybe you’ll find a way to organize your things. Maybe brighten up the flat.”

            “Why would I need organization tips when I have you Mrs. Hudson.”

            “Because I’m not your housekeeper,” she said, eying Sherlock over the rim of her teacup.

            Sherlock was surprising quiet for most of the show. When Mrs. Hudson got up at the end to take their dirty cups to the kitchen, she smiled when she found out why he had been abnormally silent. Once she placed the dishes in the sink she returned to drape a blanket over Sherlock.

            Part way through preparing supper she heard Sherlock stir in the other room. The fluorescent glow of the television shone as the only light in the room and illuminated his groggy face. He looked around the room like a lost toddler until his eyes finally found Mrs. Hudson standing in the kitchen. Comforted with the knowledge that she was still there he turned back to the television, one of those ridiculous ‘reality’ shows now on. Every so often he would interject with a loud sigh or a declaration of how wrong everyone was. “No, he’s clearly not the father!” or “Of course he slept with someone else” with the occasional “For heaven’s sake the two of you are _related_.”

            “Sherlock! Dinner’s ready!”

            He wandered into the kitchen, blanket hanging off his shoulders. “It smells good. Thank you,” he said with a kiss to Mrs. Hudson’s head.

            “Not a problem dear.”

_-x-_

John slammed his fist into the arm of his chair. “Goddammit Sherlock! I’ve had it! If you’re just going to fight and fight and refuse to get better, I don’t know what I can do.”

“You can give me the cocaine back, make both of our lives easier,” Sherlock suggested. “It’ll take the edge off for me, I won’t be as insufferable, and you won’t have to deal with me.”

“You know what, fine. Go and shoot up to your heart’s content. I don’t care anymore,” John shouted, getting up from his chair and storming to the door. Grabbing his coat from the rack, he slung it over his shoulders and pointed at Sherlock. “I was just trying to do what’s best for you but you’ve got your head so far up your arse you think you know everything and can’t appreciate genuine help and concern. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Glad to see you go,” he sneered in response before rolling himself over in a huff.

He lay there glaring holes into the back of the sofa for a while. He honestly expected John to come back a few hours later, like usual. When his text tone eventually went off he was going to ask John to pick up Chinese on the way back. Instead, his phone fell from his hands and clattered across the floor.

_You really should keep a better eye on your pets. It’s a dangerous world out there – M_

Attached was an image of a battered and bloodied John.

Sherlock ran to his bedroom to dress and go find his friend. Upon opening his closet door he screamed. Moriarty’s lips turned to a snarl. “It’s already too late.”

            “Sherlock? Sherlock are you alright?”

            Sherlock startled, head jerking toward the sound. His eyes were wide and dark curls were matted to his forehead with sweat. Each breath was a heaving pant, chest rising and falling rapidly. “John?”

            John left the doorway and approached his friend’s bed. “I heard you scream. Is everything okay?”

            Sitting up, Sherlock looked around the room, still trying to establish reality. He turned back to John. “You’re fine.”

            “Yes, but are you?”

            “You didn’t leave?”

            He arched an eyebrow. “I left earlier today for work but no, not since…”

            Sherlock slowly nodded. “Good. Alright, good.”

            Stepping closer, John gently pushed Sherlock back into the bed. “Whatever it was, it was just a nightmare. Go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well,” he said, pulling the sheets back up and patting Sherlock on the shoulder before returning to his own room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for cutting/blood

 “Pain in the arse, innit?”

“I would say you don’t even know but...”

Lestrade laughed and took a drink. “It’ll get better eventually. And of course by better I mean only slightly less awful. Sometimes I really considered letting him have it back just to make him stop.”

“He’s poured out all the milk three times and intentionally thrown up on me twice. The worst of it seems to be winding down. I just want him to be alright.” John sighed and stared into his beer. He couldn’t say he had wanted to give the cocaine back to Sherlock, but he had thought about giving him a well-deserved punch in the jaw. Mrs. Hudson graciously offered to Sherlock-sit for the evening, giving John a much needed chance to relax.

“Well if anything we’ll be set for the next few years.”

“I’m not letting this be another re – hold on sorry. It’s Mrs. Hudson.” John pressed his phone to one ear, his finger in the other to hear over the lively background noise of the pub. “Hello? What do you mean acting odd? Yeah I’ll head back now.”

Disconnecting, John grabbed his coat and threw it on. “I’ve got to go.”

“Do you need me to come with you?”

“I’ll call if I need anything.”

_-x-_

“How was he acting strangely?”

“Being rather fidgety. He kept scratching at his arms. Right before I rang he went to take a shower,” said Mrs. Hudson as she tried to keep pace with John who was now taking the stairs two at a time. He had burst into the building calling for her. Now he called out for his flatmate to no response.

“How long has he been in there,” he asked without even turning to her, already starting back towards the bathroom.

“About a half hour I’d say.”

“No that’s too long,” he muttered to himself. He stopped in front of the bathroom door and called out once more, “Sherlock!”

John went to open the door, but found it locked. He jiggled the doorknob, shouting Sherlock’s name louder. “Dammit open the door!” He pushed his ear against the door to hear if Sherlock was even responding in the slightest. At first all he heard was the water from the shower beating against the tub. About to pull away, he stopped and listened closer at the sound of a groan. He could have sworn Sherlock said “John.”

“Sherlock can you get to the door?” Any anger in his voice had faded away into worry. He frenetically tried the knob again to no avail. “Sherlock, _please_.”

Mrs. Hudson watched John’s attempts to get into the bathroom. She took a few steps back when he turned his good shoulder to the door and took a deep breath. She only heard the ramming and the final splintering, turning away from what would most definitely be a messy scene.

“Sherlock can you hear me?”

The scratch of the curtain rings against the rod.

“Oh God, Sherlock.”

_-x-_

His entire forearm was red, the deluge stemming from a gash near his wrist. There was no pain. It was simply there – a blemish upon alabaster skin. He just needed to get them out, to make that feeling go away and do something, anything, to even feel close to that high.

“-lock?”

His head lolled toward the sound. Was John back already? How long had he been here, a bleeding mess slumped in the bathtub. At least… at least…. His brain was focused more on keeping him alive than timekeeping.

“-the door!”

The room shifted in and out of focus. He lazily wiped water from his eyes, smearing his face with blood along the way. He should get up and let John it. They were out now so he could get up and…

“John,” he murmured weakly. He should turn off the water. He should get the door. John was hitting it harder now. That couldn’t be his hand that had to be…

Dark eyelashes fluttered; two-ton lids struggled to stay open.

Suddenly John was in the bathroom, scrambling for rags to contain the blood dripping from his flatmate’s left arm. “-lock? – me? Oh God.”

_-x-_

John nearly fell into the bathroom as the door gave way under his weight.  As he regained his balance, his mind flashed back to Sherlock seizing in the middle of the sitting room. As he got closer to the shower, ragged breathing became audible. “Sherlock can you hear me?”

He pulled the curtain back to reveal Sherlock curled up in the corner, but John’s eyes zeroed in on the pink twinge of the water, tracing it to stains on the tub wall, then to the cut on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, registering John, before slipping closed again. “Oh God, Sherlock.”

He turned the water off, noticing it was ice cold as a few drops hit his arm, and grabbed a towel off the rack. He wrapped the cloth around the wound, trying his best to apply pressure evenly across the afflicted area. Blood seeped through the towel, staining the once pristine white fabric a harsh red. “Mrs. Hudson! There’s a first aid kid under the sink. Could you please bring it here!”

“Yes, yes, of course dear!”

_What’s taking her? No it hasn’t even been that long. You’re not thinking straight John. Focus. You can’t stitch him if you’re not focused._

John heard a gasp behind him.

“Will he be alright?” Mrs. Hudson asked while setting the first aid kid next to John.

“I need you to come and keep pressure on this while I get what I need out.”

_-x-_

His arm stung and then he felt the pinprick of a needle. The brief sensations of pain were the only thing tethering him to the surface. He body kept trying to sink in to the comforting darkness, unconsciousness tugging him downwards, only to be foiled by some small unpleasant feeling guiding him back to where he needed to be.

At the very edge of his hearing he found snippets of John and Mrs. Hudson, one issuing stern but not harsh commands, the other agreeing and asking the occasional question. Now if only he could open his eyes or mouth. He could reassure them that the bugs were out from under his skin, that he was okay now. He could look John in the eye and tell him he shouldn’t worry so much. He could utter a thank you. But he couldn’t. He was dependent upon his senses of hearing and touch to help keep him afloat.

The ties were fraying. He needed the rest. But he had to know at least part of what was happening to him.

Sherlock desperately grasped and anything to keep himself conscious but found nothing. He slowly descended into the welcoming arms of sleep with only one more needle prick of discomfort before he was completely gone.

He woke again for a brief moment as he was lifted from the tub. But once he realized John had him, he slipped away once more.

_-x-_

 

John laid Sherlock, now stitched up and in his dressing gown, down on the couch, making sure to avoid putting unneeded pressure on his wounded arm. Mrs. Hudson followed dutifully behind him. Once Sherlock was down she propped a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket.

“Is he going to be alright?”

John nodded, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “The cut wasn’t too deep, that’s why I was able to close it here. It looked worse than it was because he was messing with it and got blood all over himself.  I just need to watch it and make sure it doesn’t become infected.” He reached out to place a hand on his landlady’s shoulder, but stopped prematurely, remembering his palms were still coated in blood. “I’ll wash up and fix tea.”

Mrs. Hudson waved him off. “Nonsense. You clean your hands and sit down. I’ll fix you a cuppa.”

John knew better than to argue with her and did as he was told. While waiting for the kettle to boil Mrs. Hudson took a seat across from him, both of them carefully eyeing Sherlock’s sleeping form.

“You’re good for him. He’s much better since he met you.”

John kept silent. How could he be good for Sherlock if he didn’t notice the drug use? He wasn’t there when Sherlock decided to slice open his arm. At least he had been there to clean up the resulting damage.

“Dear?”

He looked up to see Mrs. Hudson holding his cup of tea, concern etched into her wrinkles. He didn’t hear her get up or the kettle boiling. How long had he spaced out?

He accepted the drink with a quiet “Thank you.” He took a few sips and turned to her again. “It’s getting late. You should go to bed. We’ll be fine up here. Thank you for everything.”

“Of course. I want him to get better just as much as you. You try and get some sleep too, alright?”

He nodded. “I’ll try my best.”

_-x-_

Sherlock awoke in the sitting room. He was on the sofa. Had he fallen asleep while John was out? When did he put on his dressing gown? Wait, why did his arm burn? Sitting up, he brought his left arm into view.

_Stiches?_

His fingers tentatively ran the length of the wound. The flesh was an angry red and tender. Splotches of dried blood dotted his arm further out.

_What happened to him?_

“John?”

John’s eyes slowly opened. He blinked a few times, as if trying to recall where he was and what all had happened. “Sherlock? How do you feel?” he asked, stretching.

“What happened to me?”

“You cut your arm open. Apparently you were muttering about getting something out and locked yourself in the bathroom.”

It came back in fragments. He could feel them crawling under his skin. They had to get out; they were driving him crazy.

The knife.

The bathroom.

The blood.

John shouting.

The cold ocean of darkness dragging him down deeper.

“You cleaned and closed the wound?”

John nodded. He got up and placed his mug in the sink before returning to sit next to Sherlock. He took the stitched arm in his hand, looking at his handiwork. “It looked awful in there. You got blood everywhere.”

“I thought there were bugs in my arm. I was trying to get them out.”

“It’s a common psychosis with cocaine addicts.” Gently placing Sherlock’s arm back in his lap, he glanced into his friend’s eyes, swallowed by dark circles and agitated capillaries. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” The response was more automatic than anything. John was having trouble processing the fact that he had actually received an expression of gratitude from Sherlock.

The two sat in silence for a while, both staring blankly forward into the wall. The only noise was a small ‘sorry’ when Sherlock’s knee brushed against John’s.

Night had fully settled in. The only light in the flat came from the kitchen, casting long shadows into the sitting room. The streetlights had come on while they were sleeping. Their soft orange light leaked in through the windows, illuminating the two men only in profile.

Sherlock broke the heavy blanket of quiet. “How did you get in?”

“I knocked the door down. You’re paying for it.”

Sherlock laughed. “You won’t let me work.”

“You have the money. And you can go back to work once you’re clean.”

John found himself with a lapful of curls. Sherlock had fallen over, resting his head on John’s legs. “Well how can I work if I can’t even sit up?”

“What are you going on about?

“I still feel weak.”

“You’re just being lazy.”

“No really, I feel a bit weak. Holding myself up was taking far too much energy. If you’d move I’d like to go back to sleep.”

“Well you shouldn’t sleep on the couch.”

Sherlock looked up at John, doing his best to garner pity. Sighing, John nudged him with his knee. “Sit up.”

John stood and offered his hand to Sherlock, who put in very little effort to pull himself up. Draping a lanky arm across his shoulders, John began to lead Sherlock to his room. Just as they crossed the threshold to the kitchen, Sherlock buckled next to John.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, bracing himself against the wall to right himself. He made it to one of the stools and groaned. He ran a hand through his hair, stopping and pulling at it halfway through. His fists sat clenched in his lap, clearly frustrated he couldn’t so much as walk to his own damn room.

“Here.”

Sherlock gave John a questioning glance when he found an arm beneath his shoulders and one reaching to grip him under his knees. “But your shoulder…”

With a grunt, Sherlock was off the stool and in John’s arms. “It’s a short way.”

“Thank you,” he said into John’s shoulder. He didn’t know he could feel this exhausted. Honestly, he could probably fall asleep right here, head secured in the crook of John’s neck, knowing he was safe. He barely recognized that he had been put down until he felt the warmth of John’s arms underneath him leave. His hand shot out, catching John’s wrist.

“Don’t leave, please.”

John didn’t try to pull away or shake him off. Instead he gently pried spindly fingers off and settled down on the edge of the bed. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep. Alright?”

Sherlock muttered something incomprehensible, rolled over, and pulled the duvet up to his nose.

John crouched next to a sleeping Sherlock. He took a moment to relish the calm that had washed over his flatmate’s features. It was so much nicer than the wrinkles of agitation that had been lining his face recently. Sighing, John brushed away a stray curl. “Let me know when you’re willing to let me save you from yourself,” he whispered. He was about to leave when something stopped him. He didn’t know what compelled him to do it, but John found himself placing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. His brain catching up to his actions, he jerked away.

Did he just… no. No.

John straightened up, trying to forget what he’d just done. He turned to the door and left towards his own bedroom, hoping Sherlock would sleep long enough so they could both get some much needed rest.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued! I'm going to try my best to not make you wait too long (though I'm not sure I can absolutely promise that, silly real life!)


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